


Tell-Tale

by sarahmonious



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Fingerfucking, Pregnancy Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmonious/pseuds/sarahmonious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filming that week had been like salt rubbed into wounds. So Jensen takes matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell-Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007.

They wrap up the episode at a decent enough hour, and Jensen slips his boots back on in the dressing trailer as he half-listens to Jared babbling on about flying down to LA to meet up with Sandy for the weekend, saying something about pizza and a gift receipt when he stops, and stares at Jensen for a moment.  
  
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jensen replies, snapping out of his reverie. “Yeah, no, I’m good. Tired. Think I’m gonna head back to my place.”  
  
“Oh,” Jared says, still watching him as Jensen stands, puts on his light coat. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday, then.”  
  
“Yep,” Jensen says, and pulls the door shut behind him.  
  
He accidentally left the air running when he left this morning, and as he paces his empty room his toes cramp on the rough carpet. He should be heading downstairs to the weight room while he has the extra time, but all he can think of is a cold beer and maybe something hot and salty to pass the time.  
  
He grabs his keys and is out the door before he has time or sensibility to argue with himself.   
  
The taxi takes him down near the harbor to a little hole-in-the-wall bar that he and Jared came to once when they were scouting out their go-to places in the area. It’s small, if a bit dirty, but the tables and bar are thick oak, stained dark with years of wear, no cheesy memorabilia hanging on the walls. It’s nothing fancy, just good beer on tap and a good handful of the harder stuff kept well stocked below.   
  
He slides in on home, the barstool creaking beneath him as he settles, and orders a draft.   
  
He thinks.  
  
It wasn’t the first time the subject’s come up, obviously, but he tries to avoid it when he can. Little bit harder, this go around, but, well, hell. He’s an actor. It’s what he does for a goddamn living.   
  
The barstool swivels, just a little, rust and age making it a bit difficult to do, but he pushes off slightly with his toe and listens to it squeak obstinately. The bartender sets down the napkin and the sweating draft.  
  
Twenty-nine. If Jared calls him an old fart one more time there was going to be a serious ass kicking. Twenty-nine was twenty-nine. It was just the way his life was, right now at least; he had settled into his little niche and didn’t have time for much else. It wouldn’t be fair. Accept it, move on.  
  
As for Jared. Well. He was his own special breed.  
  
He takes a long swig and sets the glass down with a clunk, letting an irritated sigh escape before he can stop it. The  _problem_  is that he shouldn’t even be comparing himself to someone who isn’t even  _real_.   
  
It’s just.  
  
And at that he runs his hand through his hair and can’t go on.   
  
The first beer is gone soon enough, and then the second, and the third and fourth. He slides his finger down the water beaded on the glass, tracing little patterns as the drops catch on his finger and smudge.   
  
The beer’s made him a bit drowsier than he’d rather admit.  
  
He lifts his head to look out around the bar. It’s been quiet and he can see why. A couple of old guys sit perched around their own drafts and a newspaper, one of them puffing away on a fat cigar as another taps emphatically on an open page. And then, in the far corner across from him sits a girl with just about as many empty beer glasses surrounding her. He squints, wondering why she’d come to a place like this, and then blinks as the shitty lighting creates a blurry halo of brunette around her head.   
  
He licks his lips and rocks a little on the squeaky barstool, assessing his percentage of stumbling once he reached a standing position. That, and, well, Jesus, he doesn’t  _do_  this, but apparently his subconscious or  _whatever_  had something like this in mind when deciding to come here.   
  
“This is stupid,” Jensen grumbles, but his feet wander a little path over toward her anyway, his unfinished glass still in his hand. He sucks in a slight breath as he watches her stare idly at her fingers, curled together and resting on the table.  
  
He slides down across from her, and she jumps.  
  
“Hi,” he says. “Um. I don’t do this.”  
  
“You don’t do this?” She repeats after a beat, the corners of her pale pink lips turning upwards slightly. “What, drink?”  
  
“What? No, uh,” he glances down at his glass and hastily sets it on the table, the amber liquid inside sloshing dangerously up the sides. “I mean. This. Deliberately putting myself up for the position of being denied. It’s kind of liberating, actually.”   
  
“Yeah?” she says, ducking her head and smiling fully now. “Why’s that?”  
  
Jensen shrugs, looks back down at his glass and matches her smile. “My friend says I got a complex.”  
  
“That makes two of us,” she quips, and Jensen laughs.  
  
She says her name is Emily, and when he introduces himself there isn’t a spark of recognition in her eyes, and it’s nearly absurd, how instantly and unconsciously he relaxes. He ends up buying them both another round, unnecessary as their both flushed and a little more loose-tongued than usual, but he thinks she appreciates the gesture all the same. They make small talk until a good handful of the late night regulars start filtering into the bar and their beers have gone warm, so he takes another tentative step in what he hopes is the right direction and asks, “Hey, do you maybe wanna get out of here?”  
  
His stomach gives a swooping thrill when she nods her head eagerly.  
  
They step out into the breezy night, lingering towards the water without any real sense of direction. The salty air reeks, smells of brine and fish and exhaust from the surrounding transportation, but she doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps on talking about Vancouver and how long she’s lived here (half her life), how she’s still looking for a job that actually has to do with the degree she graduated with (Anthropology), and that she still watches and loves American football way more than hockey, no matter how much her friends make fun of her. Jensen grins, and asks her what her favorite team is.  
  
“The  _Patriots_?” he says, his nose wrinkling.   
  
“So?” Emily says, her eyes wide. “What! Tom Brady is  _hot_ , okay?”  
  
“Oh my God,” Jensen groans into his hands.  
  
“Hey, I don’t see the Cowboys rearing for an undefeated season this year.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks to your damn Tom Brady,” he grumbles, and she shakes her head.  
  
“My nephew,” Emily says, pushing the hair back behind her ears as the wind gusts between them. “Little thing. He just started playing the pee-wee football. Loves it to death. It’s kind of adorable, seeing his little legs scampering up and down the field.”   
  
They’re looking out across the harbor, leaning against the rotting wooden posts as the water below them slaps gently on the concrete walkway. He only lets the words leave his mouth because the alcohol gives him the right to say such things, that and the fact that he doesn’t even  _know_  her.  
  
“You ever think about having kids?”   
  
She makes a groaning noise and tips her head back, and Jensen thinks with a sinking feeling that that right there was probably the mistake that’ll cost him the evening, but instead she says, “Oh my  _God_ , yes. Someday. I think about that kind of stuff sometimes and panic, wondering if it’s ever gonna happen, you know?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jensen says, clearing his throat and ignoring the pounding in his ears. “Yeah, kinda.”  
  
There’s a moment of comfortable silence between them, Emily staring out at the winking lights of the harbor as he watches her as surreptitiously as he can out of the corner of his eye.   
  
He slips his hand into hers, giving it a little squeeze when she doesn’t let go.  
  
“Damn,” he says. “Middle of July and I feel like I’m gonna freeze to death out here.” She makes an amused noise.   
  
“Whatever,  _Yank_. This is skinny dipping weather. Don’t make me throw you in there.”   
  
“I’ll take you with me,” he points out with a grin. She lets out an exaggerated, longsuffering sigh.  
  
“All right. Well, if that’s the way you’re gonna be, we might as well find some place to hole up in, keep out this extreme cold.”   
  
“Too bad I live all the way across town,” Jensen hums, giving a little swing to their clasped hands.  
  
“All the better that my place is right down the street,” she says with a hint of coyness, her cheeks still stained red from the alcohol, now advancing to the tips of her ears. He gestures, and she leads the way.  
  
*  
  
Her place is a cramped apartment on the fifth floor of a building two blocks from the harbor and the bar, water damage on the popcorn ceiling and paint peeling off eggshell-white drywall, but she doesn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest. He takes that as a good sign, and plops heavily down on the plump, faux-leather couch.   
  
“You want anything?” she calls from the kitchen, and he hears her rummaging around cabinets. “Got some, uh, Jack and tequila.”  
  
“Nah,” he says, glancing around at the picture frames dotting nearly every flat surface. The one closest to him on the messy coffee table shows a younger Emily and another man hugging and grinning, bathed in the glow of the setting sun on a calm-looking beach.   
  
“My brother,” she says, coming into the room with two small glasses filled with dark amber liquid. “We took a trip down to Pensacola before he had the kidlet.”   
  
Jensen eyes the glasses as she clears off a little space on the coffee table to set them on coasters, completely unnecessary as it’s marred with faint little half moons already. She shrugs.  
  
“Hey, it’s not everyday I get the chance to entertain. Humor me.”   
  
“Like I’d ever turn down a drink,” he says, swirling the liquid a little inside the glass and taking a quick sip that zings all the way down. He licks his lips, watching her neck as she swallows and then sets down the glass with a little sigh.   
  
Before he even knows what he’s doing he’s on top of her, pinning her to the couch in one deft movement and ignoring her high-pitched noise of surprise. His lips find hers, and he tastes the bite of the whiskey on the corners of her mouth and sucks it off her tongue with mad fervor. She arches up, moaning a little into his mouth, and his lips move down her jaw and to the soft skin of her neck, and instead of whiskey he tastes salt, the wind-blown residue from the night air coating every inch of bare skin, together a harmony on his tongue.   
  
“God,” she gasps out as he moves further down her neck. “I thought I was doing the entertaining.”   
  
“Oh, you’ll get your chance,” he breathes out against her collarbone as he twists the hem of her shirt in his fingers. “This needs to go.”   
  
“Agreed. But—” Emily cuts herself short as he pushes his hands up her shirt anyway, cupping her breasts and squeezing. “Jesus,” she pants. “Jensen, just—” but his thumb sweeps below the fabric, finding her nipple. “Hang on,” she finally gasps, pawing at his arms. “Bedroom,” she says between breaths. “A lot more comfortable, believe me.”   
  
“Sure,” he says, but the second his hands leave her warm body his want becomes so  _aching_  that he can barely stand, his dick already throbbing around the tight confines of his jeans. His head is muzzy, an odd sense of drowsiness combined with the fact that every single one of his senses are on overdrive and he  _wants_ , feels the pull like gravity towards her bare skin, wants something that even in his state he’s scared to put to name, but she just takes his hand and pulls him along. She doesn’t even turn on the lights, just pulls off her shirt to reveal a pale pink bra, and the throb in his dick becomes an ache, and  _Jesus._  
  
“Take it all off, mister,” she says, already pulling at her jeans. Jensen’s never undressed so fast in his  _life_.   
  
“Huh uh,” he says as she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra, the last remaining item. Instead he pushes the swell of her breasts closer together and buries his face between them, nipping gently as one hand reaches around to grab firmly at her ass. Slowly he pulls the fabric down until finally his tongue finds her nipple, and he gently pulls it to a peak with his teeth as she moans, arching her back into the wet warmth.   
  
Fuck, he can  _smell her_  and he hasn’t even touched her, so he makes amends to that, finds her drenching the outside of her thighs for him, and he groans deep in his chest.   
  
“Tell me,” he says huskily, cupping her as she grinds down against his palm. “Tell me what you want.”   
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” she whimpers, clutching at his arms, nails digging in to his biceps. “I want. I want your  _tongue_  and—” she shudders up as he runs a finger along her folds, “and I want you to fuck me, fill me up.”   
  
He nearly looses it right then and there, squeezes his eyes shut and grunts, clamps down on it. She’s squirming against his hand,  _needing_  the pressure, and yeah, Jesus, he can sympathize.   
  
“That?” he murmurs, pushing a finger up inside her and she lets out a muffled shriek. “That I can do.” He lowers her on the bed and kneels down, pulling her slick thighs apart, and taking a second to orient himself through his daze and her heady scent. He starts off slow, little flicks of the tongue that have her moaning loudly as if the ghosting along her sensitive flesh is more than enough. Her hips nearly come off the bed when he suddenly pushes deeper, sliding up her folds until his tongue finds her clit, circling, teasing, until she reaches up to grab at a fistful of his hair, whimpering through her gritted teeth and holding him tighter against her. No mercy: he places the barest of pressure from the tip of his tongue where she needs it most and she writhes beneath him, biting her lips to keep from screaming.   
  
He tastes her one last time before pulling up, his chin still slick with her, and she keens desperately at the loss of his tongue, clawing for him, but he just slides her limp body further up the bed and positions himself tight against her, his hand reaching for her incredible heat. He looks down at her, intensely steady, feeling his dick hardening still against her soft, slick thigh.   
  
“Come for me,” he murmurs roughly against her skin, sliding a finger inside her, and then a second, watching her buck up against him with a cry. “Come on. I’ll give you what you want.” It’s the little flick of his thumb against her clit that finally has her shaking, spilling out and running down his wrist, throbbing and mewling, and Jensen’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything so beautiful.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes out, soothing her down, his dick so swollen it’s killing him, and she reaches out to grab his sticky, drying hand and gasps out, “What I want.”   
  
“ _Yeah_ ,” he says. “What you want. You want it so bad I can taste it, so good, I bet you’re so tight and ready, aren’t you, I can  _feel_  it, c’mon, tell me.” He’s babbling, has no idea what he’s say or why, doesn’t care because she starts tensing again, making hard, throaty noises.  
  
“I want it, please,  _give it to me_ ,” she says, her hips rolling up to meet his.   
  
No condom. He doesn’t give it a second thought, just aligns himself against her and thrusts in to her unbelievable warmth.   
  
 _What I want._  
  
What he wants is her, all of her, the way she keens beneath him and tightens her thighs around his waist, her eyes squeezed shut and her fingernails digging into his shoulders. What he wants is this, just this, the swelling of his dick inside her, her soft skin sticky with sweat and  _him_ , the way she needs him just as badly as he needs her. He closes his eyes, the movements of their hips together becoming more frantic as she shakes and he moans, feeling the flood of wetness around him, thinking of how ready she is for him and what he has to give her—.  
  
He comes so hard that his muscles give way and he falls on top of her, pushes deeper inside her, so sudden that she gives a loud cry and clenches so unbelievably tight around him, shaking uncontrollably, thrusting her hips hard against his. He spills into her, watching her as she buries half her face in the bed sheets, her mouth working but saying nothing. He doesn’t want to come down, doesn’t want to pull out, just wants to watch her like this until he can’t.   
  
Emily looks up at him from beneath her lashes, breathing hard, and he brushes a stray strand of hair off her forehead. She doesn’t say anything, just smiles faintly as he absently runs his fingers over her stomach.   
  
*  
  
The first thing he notices is that the bed is  _way_  too damn soft, meaning his back is going to be  _killing_  him the rest of the day.   
  
The second thing he notices is that he’s burning up, like he slept with the covers up to his chin, or something, so he tries to throw them off to cool down.  
  
Except for the fact that there’s a hand attached to it.  
  
Jensen bolts wide awake, his heart racing uncomfortably in his morning stupor, and thinks  _oh_  shit.  
  
The girl -  _Emily_  - starts to barely wake, blinking blurry eyes at the sunlight cutting through her aluminum blinds. Jensen takes a quick peek, and, oh, yep, Christ, still naked under there.   
  
“Fuck,” he says, his voice hoarse with sleep and runs a hand through his messy hair, feeling the panic start to rise in him like bile.   
  
“Done and done,” Emily murmurs, twisting around from lying on her stomach, and Jensen looks wide-eyed at the wrinkles from the sheets imprinted on her breasts. “Though I wouldn’t turn down round two, if you’re so inclined.”   
  
“Oh God.  _Fuck_ ,” he says again, jumping about of bed and trying for some semblance of modesty while rooting around on her messy floor for his boxers.   
  
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting up against her headboard. “You gotta go?” Jensen shucks on his boxers – sticking out from behind her stereo, what the  _hell_  - and stares at her.  
  
“I…” he tries, but he’s at a complete and utter fucking loss. He feels his face burning up, feels the need to  _bolt_  and forget about this, the absolute stupidest thing he’s done  _ever_ , but he owes her an apology, she needs that, at least, but his throat just isn’t working the way he wants it to.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he finally chokes out. “God. I. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, all this, God, I’m so sorry.” Her face turns pained, her brows drawn together in a mixture of bewilderment and insult, and fuck, he’s just royally screwing this up.  
  
“What do you mean? You didn’t enjoy…?” And yeah, that’s just a part of the problem, because he did, he  _really_  did, but he feels lower than scum and only has half an idea why, and his logic and his senses are jumping back and forth, wires crossed, making him feel so very utterly confused.   
  
“I did,” he says insistently, “I just—I didn’t even use a  _condom—_ ”  
  
“Mm.” She stifles back a yawn. “That’s okay. I’m on birth control.”   
  
Jensen’s mouth snaps shut.  
  
“Oh,” he says. “Right.”   
  
She pauses, watching him.  
  
“Is something wrong?”   
  
“No,” Jensen says, finding his jeans and shirt rumpled next to the bed and slipping them on. “I gotta go, Emily, I’m sorry, I just. I’ll see you.”  
  
“Jensen!” she calls but he doesn’t answer.   
  
Just pulls the door shut behind him.   
  
*  
  
He slaps on a grin the next two weeks of filming, but by the end of the second week he’s so exhausted again he just wants to sleep for twenty-four hours straight.   
  
Jared still makes him go out with him anyway, the bastard.   
  
It’s the nice little Japanese place where Jensen had once dared him to eat a ball of wasabi for five bucks. Jared couldn’t taste anything for four days.   
  
“You’re such a moron,” Jensen says when Jared brings it up.   
  
“Best five bucks I ever got,” Jared says happily. “Finally won a stuffed giraffe from the claw game next door with it.”   
  
“Cute,” Jensen grunts.   
  
They’re waiting to be seated, Jared squinting at the Japanese script on the paintings on the wall when they both hear someone yell, “Jensen!” He freezes and looks around, and God, please, he just wants to sit down and  _eat—_  
  
And he really doesn’t expect Emily to pop up right in front on him, slightly breathless.   
  
“Hey,” Jared says, stepping forward and putting his shoulder in front of Jensen’s, but still smiling. “We’re just here to eat, okay—”  
  
“S’okay,” Jensen says softly after recovering, swallowing and slapping a hand down on Jared’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go get us that table. I’ll be there in just a sec.” He stares, a questioning look on his face, but Jensen just shoos him off.   
  
“Hi,” he says, turning back to her, almost hating that same swooping feeling that invades his gut.  
  
“Hi,” she mumbles, nervously scratching the crease at her elbow. “I was just leaving, but I’m sorry, I just—” But Jensen interrupts her with a shake of his head.   
  
“No, okay, I’m sorry. It was stupid of me.”   
  
“Which part,” she asks dully, looking up at him.   
  
“Leaving,” he affirms. She shifts a little, and when she doesn’t say anything he goes on. “I just… I don’t know why, but I sort of… panicked.” A half-lie, sure, but she doesn’t need to know the rest of it. Not yet, anyway.   
  
“Panicked?” Emily repeats, her voice going a little hard. “What, are you afraid of commitment, or something?”  
  
“No.  _No._  I can’t. I can’t really explain, just, I was stressed with other things, which is a completely lame excuse, I know, but Emily, I felt like a complete and total asshole. I still do. I’m sorry, I really am.”  
  
“Couldn’t even get your number,” she mumbles again, and Jensen’s only known her for one night but he’s ready to kill himself because of that look on her face.  
  
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says. “We could go back again. To that bar, just, you know, start the whole night over again. We could get just as drunk, even.” She laughs a little at that, and Jensen smiles.   
  
“You won’t run off on me again?”  
  
“You make it sound so girly,” he mutters and she laughs again.   
  
“Well, that  _was_  kind of a girly move,” she says, taking his hand and squeezing it. “But forget getting just as drunk. I could drink you under the  _table._ ”  
  
“I guess we’ll see about that then, won’t we?” She steals a pen from the seater’s podium and writes her number on his palm and while he grins.   
  
“Highschool much?” he quips.  
  
“Shut up,” she says, but puts little hearts around the number with a sly look on her face. “Guess I’ll see you around,” she says when she finishes.   
  
“That you will,” he replies, wanting to kiss her right then and there so bad his lips tingle, but he doesn’t, just watches her go, grinning when she turns around to meet his eyes as she pulls the door shut behind her.


End file.
